


Cease Fire

by AnnetheCatDetective



Series: Mercyverse [2]
Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi, Post-War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-11 23:49:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnetheCatDetective/pseuds/AnnetheCatDetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What everyone gets up to, after they retire from the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Medic and Heavy (RED)

**Author's Note:**

> A series of quickie vignettes for the Mercy-verse

1- RED Medic, RED Heavy

~~~

Medic was excited about the transfer to RED HQ, the 'desk jobs'. He might be asked to do physical evaluations on incoming hires, but mostly, he would be doing pure research. Making improvements to the medigun, to the ubercharge process... it was a thrilling prospect. No more would be be pulled from important work to keep a bunch of morons from killing themselves, no more would he have to stand helplessly by when BLU's onslaught overwhelmed and he could not heal them all.

No more would he have to see his Heavy die.

Heavy...

Heavy would be less pleased about these changes.

"Mein Schatz..." He places a hand on Heavy's great forearm. "Are you packed?"

"Da. Everything is ready to be delivered to big building." Heavy sighs. "No more killing baby men... I will have to take Sascha many times to gun range to make up for this."

"I will come with you sometime, to watch." Medic offers a smile, hesitant but real.

"Oh, da! Sascha always do better if Doktor is watching us." Heavy taps Medic's nose lightly with one fingertip, before kissing him. "It will not be the same, if I am not protecting you... but, I will show off, if Doktor like."

"Doktor likes." Medic purrs, lets one big hand wrap around his hip, lets his own weight rest against the big man's solid chest as his hand runs up to caress one huge bicep. "Very much. I know you are sad to leave the battlefield behind, but-- I am happy that you will be coming with me. After all, I would be jealous, to think of another medic keeping you safe in battle, if I retired alone."

"Don't be jealous!" Heavy's laugh booms. "You are MY doktor. If you go to do medical research, I go to build new weapons. Make cousins for Sascha, send them to new RED Heavy Weapons Guy. Then we will still be credit to team. I will kill baby men in spirit!"

"That is true, isn't it?" Medic smiles. Any gun his Heavy builds will be like sending a part of himself back into battle. "You will kill them in spirit, while your body stays with me."

Heavy smiles as well, and pulls his Medic into a harder hug. He was more than happy for their bodies to stay together.


	2. Jane and Tavish

2- RED Demoman, BLU Soldier

~~~

The two men stand huddled outside the service station, in the middle of nowhere-in-particular, New Mexico. They had been friends, and enemies, and now with the war and half a bottle of Scrumpy behind them, friends again. One grips the payphone handset and waits for the other end to pick up, the other casts warning glares at the attendant, the only other soul for miles.

The attendant, ready to piss himself by the third ring, doesn't mean to stare. He's towheaded and sixteen, and it's the first time he's seen a black fella and white fella come loping in together with their arms around each others' shoulders, drinking out of the same bottle, and he's sorry, he wants to shout, so sorry for staring, only one fella was wearing a big Indian Chief headdress and the other fella had an eyepatch, and they have guns, and he crouches behind the pumps and prays the crazy-eyed one in the headdress, the one who'd shouted 'I! AM! GOING! TO MARS!' while his friend dialed the phone, doesn't decide to use 'em. He really is too young to die.

Jane satisfies himself that the pimple-faced pump jockey isn't going to be any kind of trouble, and waits more comfortably.

"Jimmy, it's Tavish! Aye, aye, that's right, laddie," Tavish bubbles happily and half-drunk, into the phone. "My contract's a wee bit freer, in terms to my coming back to Scotland, if you steel need yourself a demoman. Aye, I got one condition, thought-- Nae, nae, that isn't it. A friend of mine is looking to get some work, maybe in weapons testing. Oh, now, I'm sure whatever ye got, he can handle."

There's a pause, and he turns to Jane, places one hand over the mouthpiece.

"What?" Jane barks, as quietly as he's able, which is not very.

"Do you think you could drive a tank, m'lad?"

Jane's eyes light up. "Mister, you tell your friend we got a DEAL."


	3. Passing the Torch

3- RED Soldier, RED Scout

~~~

"C'mere, Private."

"Aw, whatcha want, man?" Scout trots over, expects another lecture about his performance on the field, his execution of his KP duties, or playing ball inside the base.

"Son, one of these days, I'm not gonna respawn. Don't get sentimental on me, that's what ladies do."

"I wasn't gonna." Scout snorts and crosses his arms, but his darting eyes speak to a new-settling discomfort.

"I told those civilians up in corporate I'm not looking for one of your fruity desk jobs and I don't want to retire. A Soldier... soldiers. So that's what I aim to do. 'Til they kill me."

"So why are you telling me?"

"You're not going to be nineteen forever, Private--"

"I'm twenty-four."

"My point exactly!" Soldier shouts, grins manically for a moment, the Scout's unimpressed expression lost on him. "One of these days, it'll be time for you to stop being a boy and start being a man! And when that day comes..."

There's a suspiciously sniffle-like sound, and the horrifying realization that Soldier could very well be tearing up, and Scout wants to be anywhere else, but for once in his life, his legs won't run.

"Take this." Soldier shoves a book into Scout's hands, and a book is the last thing Scout expected Soldier to have.

It's 'The Art of War'.

"My Ma says my old man was a soldier, in Korea." Scout offers lamely. She doesn't talk about it much. He died there when Scout was two.

"Yeah? You sign up for the war to be like your old man?"

"Not really." Scout says. He was bored, though, and it had sounded exciting, and it was a good way to get money-- his brothers were all pretty useless, and someone had to take care of Ma. But 'not really' wasn't what Soldier wanted to hear, he could tell. "Maybe, I guess."

"Well, you'll do him proud, Son. And if they send some namby-pamby to replace me, don't you even think twice about taking up the ol' rocket launcher yourself."

Scout doesn't think he's cut out for launching rockets.

"Yes, Sir!" Is what he says.


	4. Apology

4- BLU Scout, RED Spy

~~~

They meet in the little tavern in Teufort, and it is perhaps somewhat by design.

"What is your poison, boy?" The Spy asks, taking a seat a respectful two stools down the bar from his old enemy.

"What?"

"As of this morning, I am retired. No animosity is required between us. So. Can I buy you a drink?"

Animosity may be a job requirement no longer, but Scout does not forgive easy. Still, if someone else is paying, someone else is paying.

"I'll take a scotch on the rocks." He says.

Spy laughs. "What have you really been drinking? Good scotch I could certainly afford, but it will burn the throat, lapin, and kick you in the head in the morning if you can get past that. Somehow I think you are not used to it."

"Hey, fuck you, man."

"Still, a beer is too cheap, too mundane. Barkeep, one cognac, one rum and Coke."

"Rum and Coke we got. No cognac." The bartender says, stretches the word out with a sneer.

"Then a rum and Coke for my young friend and a martini for myself, just a little bit dirty."

"So what's your deal?" Scout asks.

"Deal?"

"Yeah, asshole, deal. Why you buying me drinks?"

"Making up for bad blood, I suppose... I did not realize-- I did not realize you were her son."

"Yeah, well. I am."

"Oui. I know this now. I have been... conflicted. I have been sorry. Your mother, she is a wonderful woman. If I had known... There was some resemblance, in the photos on her walls, but you could have been any number of young men, I... I did not look so close. She did not know much, about her son's work. We talked of other things, mostly."

"Yeah. Talked." Scout's hands tighten into fists. He remembers coming to in respawn, groggy, to find the base in shambles. To find pictures of his mother floating around, some with bloody fingerprints just barely obscuring things he didn't want to think about.

"About many things." Spy nods, smiling mistily at the recollection. "Art. Film. Music. Baseball."

"... Ma talked to you about baseball?"

"Passionately. I was lost, completely, but her eyes would light up so, so I would listen. She is beautiful, selfless, clever... there are no other women in the world to me now, she has ruined me for them."

"She's special, all right. That's why, if you ever step outta line with her, I'll kill you."

Spy laughs. "Mon petit, in a fight, I would decimate you. But if I ever hurt your mother, yes. Yes, you would. I would deserve nothing more, and she would deserve nothing less."

"Yeah, whatever."

"It is perhaps a little bit backwards, to ask a lady's son instead of her father, but let us not be bound by convention. I wish to ask for your mother's hand in marriage. I could do this without your blessing, but if you truly objected... if you spoke to her of the war, the battles, of my knife in your back... She could never accept me then."

"Hell no you-- Ya can't just--"

"I understand." He stands, head hanging. "The wounds are still raw. I will not cut off contact with her, of course-- I would not hurt her that way. Still, if she should wish to end things, on your counsel, I would respect this. It was, perhaps, a bit presumptuous of me, to have the ring inscribed..."

"Whoa, you bought a freaking ring?" Scout leaps off his stool. "How big? Lemme see it!"

Spy pulls the box out of his pocket. "Look away, Petit. It's not like you can do any harm. You could throw it down a well for all the good it will do me, it cannot be returned."

The ring is beautiful. Looking at it, Scout's sure it cost more than anything his Ma has ever owned, maybe as much as the house. He wouldn't be surprised. The rock in the middle is fricking huge, and a bunch of little ones all around that, diamonds and sapphires, and he doesn't know anything about jewelry, but he's pretty sure it's not fake.

"You for serious wouldn't ever hurt her?"

"Not ever."

"She always wanted to go to France and stuff. I guess you'd take her."

"Everywhere. I think, though, she would be happiest to only visit all those places, and come home to Boston in the end."

"Damn straight."

"I could live in Boston." Spy allows.

"You love everything about her?" Scout challenges. "You'd keep loving her even if she gets old and fat?"

"I look forward to every passing year. She snores, but it is like an angel. She talks of baseball and even this is the music of Heaven. She shouts at motorists with language like a sailor and I fall ever more deeply in love. And God willing every one of us gets old, but your mother is a goddess after eight children, I do not think she will grow fat."

"I dunno, man, she eats like a horse sometimes."

"Yes." He sighs. "It's cute."

Scout's brow furrows. He hates the RED Spy like he's never hated anybody, but his Ma gave up going to art school when she got pregnant, and after her third kid she knew she'd never get that late honeymoon, and maybe nobody else would think it was cute if she wolfed down dinner just as fast as all eight of her sons, and maybe nobody else would think it was cute if she could out-swear them all, either. Maybe nobody else would get dumb old moony cow eyes over her snoring and take her to museums in France to look at old paintings she thought she'd never get to see.

Scout tosses the velvet ring box back. "Don't expect me to start calling you 'pop' or nothing."

"Merci beaucoup. I promise, if it is in my power to make her happy, I will."

"Yeah. Well." Scout scratches at his elbow and looks away. "You better."

He still doesn't like the slimy French bastard, not at all. But he kind of gets why his Ma does.


	5. Homecoming

5- BLU Spy, RED Sniper

~~~

Sniper went home to Australia first, rented a car to take him from the airport in Adelaide out to the Burra, and the Mundy station.

His dad, of course, had been reserved, his mum welcoming. Still, the old man warmed up when he explained he was giving up contract killing. Not to be a doctor, no, and not to stay on and raise sheep, they'd have to keep on the hired jackaroo for that.

He told them he was going to France, to live off his retirement pay until he figured out what to do with himself. It was as much of the truth as he could handle giving, and they took the news as well as could be expected.

When he does get to France, Spy picks him up at the airport there.

"I wore the blue suit." He smiles, sweeping Sniper into an embrace. "So you would recognize me."

"As if I wouldn't." And Sniper allows a kiss on the cheek, it's nothing plenty of other people in the airport aren't doing, and the embrace attracted no attention. "Ya miss me?"

"Terriblement, mon cher, terriblement."

The drive is a long one. They get out of Paris and drive through the countryside, stop by the side of a long and empty stretch of road to make love in the Citroen, and to sleep. The next day, they pass through a sleepy village, and finally they reach an old farmhouse.

"It's been in and out of the family, I was able to get it for a little less than we had put aside." Spy says. "And ma cousine came in to help fix the place up, while I was waiting for you, so she is habitable. Also, the place down the road from here belongs to an English family. They are here only in summertime-- this ma cousine tells me-- but at least when they are here, you will have someone to speak English to, and they will no doubt be pleased to meet a native speaker."

Sniper shrugs. "Don't need too much companionship. Reckon from fall to spring, you'll be plenty enough to keep me happy, but I guess I can put up with having some pommy neigbours a couple months out of the year."

"Bien. As for getting by in the village... I could teach you to speak, en francais."

"Oh? Like the way you taught me to play baccarat?" He settles into the comfortable circle of the other man's arms about his waist, returns the gesture. Baccarat was a skill he'd let fade, in the years since, but learning it had been... well, it had been worth doing.

"Oui, bien sur. I can suck your cock whenever you develop mastery over verb conjugation and perfect tense."

"Mm, I'll conjugate your perfect tense..." He growls. He's missed the silly games of threats-that-are-promises, missed having his arms around the skinny spook... missed a lot about him.

"I'll pretend that made sense." Spy rolls his eyes, but he fails to stop his smile. "Come... I haven't shown you our bedroom."

That is as clear an invitation as Sniper needs, and the words 'Our Bedroom' sound impossible sweet. He'd wired the money, before his flight out to Australia, to cover half the cost of buying a place. He's not sure how much is left over, doesn't think quite enough for him to replace the camper van he'd finally had to sell off, but he lives in a house now, so it isn't a priority. Wasn't worth the hassle of putting the damn thing in cargo to get it overseas.

No, living in a house will be fine. A house with a bedroom, and a handsome man to share it with, and enough open space around so he won't feel crowded.

Even with the early signs of a creeping new myopia, life looks good.


	6. Bonus Heavy/Medic Sexytimes

He feels old, some days. He is in good physical condition, but he's pushing sixty and some mornings he feels it.

But, some mornings he doesn't. Some mornings he feels only the warm body pressed to his back, in their huge custom-build sleigh bed. The weighty arm draped over him and the tickle of hot breath on his ear. And then, as he rolls over to kiss a meandering line along his Heavy's strong jaw, Medic feels very young indeed.

"You still love me?" He asks with a smile, not because he needs to. He knows.

"Always." Heavy promises. "Doktor is still very handsome..."

"Doktor is an old man..." He chuckles. "With too much gray hair and too many wrinkles.

"Nyet. Is distinguished. You are desirable to me."

"And you to me, mein Schatz."

It is an old argument, and it always ends the same way. When Medic thinks about how much he is still attracted to Heavy, he has no choice but to accept that even old and gray, his Heavy feels the same.

And besides, the hardening cock in his hand speaks to the ardor Heavy still feels. And on mornings like this one, when he does not feel his age, it is as easy and natural as it ever was, to feel his own body answering in kind.

"I think we have time this morning... to make love before work." His smile widens, wicked. After all, they often make their own hours now, research and development happening around when inspiration strikes, sometimes carrying on late into the night.

"I have time." Heavy agrees. He has custom rounds to smelt, for RED's new Heavy, but they will not ship until after the weekend. He has all the time in the world for his Doktor. And his work keeps him fit, almost as much as lumbering across the battlefield did. He lies back with a leering grin to enjoy the Medic's roving appreciation.

"So big..." Medic sighs, always does. Everything about the Heavy is big, his broad chest and shoulders, his strong arms, his hands-- covering so much ground with every touch-- his mouth, as he devours his Doktor with kisses. His big belly, yes, a layer of friendly softness over all his muscle, and Medic was always happy to lean up against that bulk, cuddle into it. And below that, the jutting erection. So big. He touches his lips to the head with a breathy reverence, repeats himself. Fingertips and tongue follow, with little strokes, and it is more ritual than routine.

It is only after Heavy begs him, with a grunt and a gentle pawing at his shoulder, that he gives more.

"So sehe ich Dich gerne..." He says, the words by now as familiar as any in English, by now even as familiar as any pillow talk the Heavy has heard in his native Russian. Medic says it often, in bed and out of it, murmurs it in a breathy moan when he accompanies Heavy to the shooting range, before going down on his knees.

They did that only the once, risky but wonderful in the big empty chamber, with Sascha booming away, shredding the paper targets even as Medic sucked Heavy off.

Now, in their bed, with the teasing first steps completed, the begging done with, Medic takes in everything that he can, moans deep and hungry around the thick column of flesh. He loves doing this, loves pleasuring Heavy first so that he can enjoy the buildup of his own arousal. He loves to feel the heat, the weight on his tongue, the stretch of his lips, his jaw. He loves the smell, and the taste. He loves the sounds that Heavy makes, the big hands resting on his shoulders or his head. It all helps him to get hard and to stay that way, even if he knows that he won't last long once their positions are reversed. That part doesn't matter. This growing anticipation is what he loves best, coupled with the knowledge that he was good for his Heavy. The release is always good, but he believes in enjoying the journey now, and not so much in fussing over the destination.

In that way, he thinks, sex is like medicine. The experimentation, then the endless repetition of the trials, hoping to replicate desired data sets. The pleasure of the research, the process. The rest is just a... a nice side effect.

Heavy would understand the comparison, if Medic ever tried to explain. He enjoys making love the same way he enjoyed battle. The rush of blind feeling, the excitement, the breathlessness. The phallic symbolism does not escape him, though he never used to put too much stock in it. And always, always, his most important goal is to take care of his Doktor. In battle, it meant acting as a human shield, protector. Giver of sandwiches. In bed, it means knowing when to be gentle-- he always tries so to be gentle, must remember to be a little gentle even when it is time to be rough, to not hurt for real even when it is time to hurt just a little for fun, to leave little bruises or to bite down careful where the neck meets shoulder. It means the cleaning up and the cuddling, which Doktor never asks for but always likes.

Sometimes, it still means sharing a sandwich or two after. His Doktor will complain about crumbs in the bed, but he will eat, and lick his fingers after, and Heavy will promise to change the sheets after a nice nap.

Now, in their bed, sated, he rolls Medic onto his back to kiss his way down the smaller body, to swallow him to the root easily. He puts everything into making his Doktor come, never wants to disappoint and never does.

They lie in bed after, curled up together. Later, a bath. Later, a filling breakfast. Later, Medic's laboratory and Heavy's workshop. But now, little exists save the bed, the pillows and covers and sweaty, entwined bodies.

And on these mornings, even completely exhausted, Medic does not feel his age, not at all.


	7. The Maid

He makes Sniper watch, smile a cruel tease peeking through the mask of polite indifference. He goes over every surface of their immaculately clean hotel room with a duster and re-makes the bed so you could bounce a quarter off it, and he does it all naked.

Well, not naked.

He does have the apron.

It doesn't leave too much to the imagination, since every time he turns around and bends over, Sniper can see everything.

He's never wanted so badly to sink his teeth into anything, as Spy decides he needs to remake the bed a second time, as he wiggles his arse in the air, but Sniper remembers the light smack to his hand and the 'ah-ah-ah!'. He doesn't get to touch. Not yet.

Spy gets off on being watched, on being wanted. Sniper thinks it's funny, or would-- a man whose survival used to depend on invisibility, getting so much pleasure out of just being looked at. But it's not all that funny, and after all, he likes looking.

He'd like touching, but he likes looking.

He's not sure where the power balance lies, this new game has fucked it up six ways from Sunday. He should be the in the dominant role, he's not the one playing maid, but Spy just has to look at him to have him jumping through hoops.

When Spy leans across the bed, to tug the sheets back into perfect hospital corners, stretched out so that Sniper can trace the taut lines of every muscle in his back, up his arms and down his legs, he can also see everything else, and he can see how hard the other man has gotten, just from being on display. He has to grip down hard on the armrests of his hotel chair-- so much nicer than the rickety wooden ones back in Teufort, everything in the room so much nicer, but all he's really thinking about is the one thing that hasn't changed-- has to struggle to keep himself from reaching out, grabbing, pouncing. He can't help the growl, and Spy glances back over his shoulder, all heated eyes and smug curved lips.

"You like what you see, Monsieur?"

"You know I do, you little minx."

"Oh, and what would you like to do to me?"

Everything. He doesn't say it-- the changing light in Spy's eyes let him know he doesn't need to, his own gaze is making it clear enough. He wants too much, more than he can reasonably expect them to get through in one evening, but with any luck, a marathon session through the next day will satisfy his all-consuming need for the other man. To touch and taste, to mark and be marked, to fuck hard and caress soft and just love, love, love.

When Spy does finally turn to face him, he's hard and leaking through the thin white fabric of the little apron, tented and wet clear.

"Come and stand in front of me." Sniper orders, his voice rough.

Spy does, the three steps it takes him neatly passing that power over.

Sniper grabs the other man's hips with the illusion of roughness, but it is their anniversary, and for all the kinky games, he feels a kind of strange and overwhelming tenderness for the man he used to kill. Later, the roughness will be real, when they're too far gone to care, when they both want it, need it. But for now his hands are controlled, a firm grip that won't yet bruise.

He licks the head of Spy's cock through the apron, making the salty wet spot there bigger, damper, more clinging and translucent. His hands only shake a little, when he goes to untie the bow in the back, but they've been fighting urges all evening, a little waver is acceptable. They haven't needed to be steady for some time now.

He lets the apron fall away, sucks cock with abandon. He's learned enough over the years they've had together, and he relishes every moan he can wring out of his lover. He toys with the idea of revenge, keeping Spy on edge all night, coming close and holding back, but he abandons the thought quickly. More rewarding to see how many times he can bring the other man off. They may be eight years older, but he bloody well knows they've both still got good working libidos. He'd like to surpass 'healthy' and try for 'impressive'. He'd like to make the man scream.

He starts up a rhythm of swallowing, finds deep-throating to be particularly rewarding, now that he's used to it. Not just because it gets his partner off, not just because it proves his skill, or his willingness. He loves being able to swallow the Spy down so deep that his nose presses hard into the thatch of rough dark curls, doesn't mind the tickle so long as he gets a deep breath of sweat and arousal. Even after eight years, he's never really been able to verbalize it, but it's hardly a secret. If the Spy didn't figure something out after the time Sniper shoved his face into the man's underarm after sex, well...

Still, as things go, it's not so strange. It'd be worse if he didn't like the smell of the man he was fucking. Spy has never minded, if Sniper sometimes takes a long moment to just smell him.

There are gasped profanities, unintentionally the first French that Spy had taught him. His hair is pulled, and then he's swallowing down the other man's release.

Spy drops to his knees to return the favour, pulls away at the last second, hands still working the Sniper's cock, rolling his balls. He moans with pleasure of his own that doesn't sound half-feigned when come spurts out onto his face and chest, puts on a good show with the milky white liquid clumping his lashes and painting his parted lips, and what he can't reach with his tongue he wipes off on the apron, but only after he's done being looked at.

"I may have to pretend to be your slut maid more often." He sighs. "Later, I will spread my legs for you, on the bed that I have made. I will be such a wanton little whore for you... only for you... This weekend, I will make you come so many times on me and in me, until I am infused with it, until your sex is something that is on me always."

It is not fair, that Spy can always talk so pretty and so dirty, when all Sniper can think to say is 'that was good', and all his mouth will actually form is 'nguh'. He thinks it's something you can only do if you're french, the indefatigable tide of really excellent pillow talk. Even when he can be poetic in his own skull, it never becomes words for Sniper.

He thinks they should have some other games, something to make it even. Back home, he supposes, they could pretend the old farmhouse was a working farm, he could always play the hired hand that way, offer up his 'services' in their empty barn. He doesn't mind taking his turn to be desperate and cock-hungry, after all, or to tease for hours by doing things around the house with his shirt off, then pass the reins over to Spy, an inverse of the game in the hotel.

He wouldn't wear the frilly apron, though.

He thinks it's another thing you have to be french to pull off.


	8. Ball Lightning

After he leaves the war, he goes back home to Bee Cave, gets himself a job teaching at UT over in Austin and a pretty little wife. He, at least, thinks she's the most beautiful woman on earth. He'll admit he might be a little biased.

Morgan Conagher, nee Brand, makes the best chili in all of Bee Cave. He's tempted to say in all the world, but again, he knows he's biased. She's perfect for him, though, his little firecracker, and she likes listening to him prattle on about science-- says the teleporter he built to bypass the dangerously rickety stairs down to the root cellar makes life like Star Trek, giggles and tells him when other girls had crushes on Captain Kirk, her favorite was always Scotty.

And she keeps the house nice, volunteers around town now and then, and other wives in town all say she must be a lovely little woman for him, except for her 'misfortune'. 'Misfortune', the only word they use for it.

"Sometimes down at the beauty parlor, I swear I wish that Maisy Dickens' dryer'd overheat and set her hair afire." She says, Sunday night, as they stand side by side in the kitchen with him washing and her drying. "Does she think I'm deaf?"

"Well, if Maisy Dickens wasn't lucky enough to be raised by college professors, I guess she's got nothing better to talk about than other people's problems." Dell says mildly.

She giggles a little at that. Her old man had been an English Lit professor, her ma a librarian-- also at UT, though of course her folks had made the commute from Sunset Valley. They were pleased to see her marrying a man with eleven PhDs, even if they were just a little put out he was in the hard sciences and not the liberal arts.

"Anyway," He continues. "We can adopt. Sure there are plenty of kids need a couple willing parents. Don't matter one bit to me if it's not mine, so long as it's healthy and you're happy."

"You'll be a good daddy, Dell Conagher." She kisses his cheek. "You want a boy or a girl? Guess we might have some say in the matter, after all."

"I want one of each. At least. How many orphans you think there are in Bee Cave? We'll bring 'em all home."

"We don't have room." She laughs.

He loves that laugh. "We'll build on. Have big family barbecues and picnics." He strips off the rubber gloves he'd been wearing, so he can put his arms around her waist without mussing up her dress. He's already looking forward to teaching them to build model rockets, and planes and trains... buying little chemistry sets, showing his kids how to ride a bike and fix a car...

With the dishes done, it's time for his round of letters-- he tries to write a couple times a month, even if he doesn't always write everyone. He'll tell Solly about how things are going, the general Americana stuff he knows the man misses while he's still running around blowing things up someplace. He'll tell Sniper about the last camping trip he took with the wife, and about their plans. He'll write Scout, too, remind him it's not too late for college, if he tries hard enough. And he'll be sure to write Demo this time, tell him he's going to be adopting. He'll write to everyone about that.

Some of his old teammates he writes oftener than others, but he ought to tell them all that he's heading for fatherhood.

\---/-/---

After he's done writing his letters and she's finished a few chapters of Bradbury, they turn in together.

He kisses her neck. "Remember when we met?"

"Better than you do." She teases.

"Now, you know that's not true... couldn't be. I remember seeing you in the hardware store that time. You were buying a tank of propane and some tools. Wearing dungarees and a work shirt. I thought you were prettier than the breath of spring."

"Poetry. The Brands have rubbed off on you."

"Don't know if it's poetry." He blushes a little, slips a hand under her nightie. "Didn't have the nerve to talk to you 'til the grocery store."

He'd run into her, in the aisle with the barbecue sauce-- not in Bee Cave, or even in Austin, but in the little town of Teufort, where she'd left Texas only to run into a man from the same county she was born in. He still remembers like it was yesterday, the two of them walking down the little boardwalk and talking. She'd had long red hair and a voice like Lauren Bacall, and hips he was not above noticing, even if he was too much of a gentleman to ogle them much.

He'd talked about his work, a little, when she'd called him out as 'one of those mercenaries always causing trouble outside town', and she'd been honestly fascinated. She'd told him about the time she was seven years old and got hit by ball lightning, how her parents swore it was a miracle she didn't die, not from the lightning itself or from the way the rain wasn't enough to stop a wildfire starting out back of their house. She told him she'd been looking her whole life for the same feeling she'd got back then, of ball lightning.

She'd said her parents were Arthurian scholars, mostly, and he'd said that sounded about right. She'd said they named her after the wicked sorceress, and he'd said maybe she was a sorceress after all. 'Because of the lightning?', she had asked him.

'Because I can't stop thinking of you for a minute', he'd answered.

He remembers all of it.

When he makes love to her, he strokes and kisses across her whole body, and he's never once shied away from her old scars. The one that winds down her leg looks like a bolt of lightning itself, and when he traces up her calf, up her thigh, along that bolt with his tongue, she comes undone something fierce, and he loves that. Even when she'd cried and told him it might be why they weren't getting pregnant-- especially then, especially then he'd been sure to love every inch of her up.

And she... he thinks she's the only woman on God's green earth who would, but she holds his hand-- not his normal hand, but the one he'd built after chopping the real one off in a fit of scientific curiosity. Even without a glove, she will. Shivers when he skates robot fingers across her naked belly and rolls into his touch.

He never takes that for granted.

\---/-/---

Scout's reply reaches them first, a parcel with a small baseball mitt, and a letter. 'You can teach your kid to catch even if he's a girl', the letter says, and 'Ma says you oughta send pictures'.

He gets a sentimental congratulations from the Demo next, and a reply from Solly. A package from the Spy arrives not long after those, with a bottle of champagne and a child-sized white afghan.

The Medic writes him back as well, his letter hot on the heels of the package from Spy. It's full of general medical advice for new parents and the million potential early childhood mishaps to come, as well as a few congratulations, from himself and from the Heavy. 'He did not feel confident in his ability to write eloquently in English, but we live near each other now, you know, so I promised to pass along the sentiment', he says, and 'The pictures from your wedding were lovely, I am sorry I was unable to attend'.

The Sniper's letter reaches him last, but it's had the longest to travel, and it's the one he's looked forward to most.

'Glad to hear it, mate! Sure you'll be a great dad. I might be swinging through the US in a month or two, if you think you won't mind a houseguest for a couple nights. I'll be sure and bring some gifts from Uncle Sniper for the little nipper-- guess you'll have to let me know before I come over how big the kid is, boy or girl, that kind of thing'

"Honey," He folds the letter up. "How do you feel about company?"

"Yesterday I accidentally made enough potato salad to feed ten men. Mind drifted off and I just kept peeling potatoes, chopping 'em up... Company'd be swell, who you expecting?"

"... Well, nobody for a couple months..." He blinks. "Ten men?"

"It's a mite more than I usually make."

"No kidding."

"I'll drop the leftovers by the firehouse, those volunteer boys'll like it." She says.

"Yup." He nods. It's August now, and they keep busy trying to keep the county from burning to a crisp. "Bet they sure will."

'Stardust' is playing on the radio, and he puts all thoughts of potato salad and brush fires out of his head and reaches for her. "Mrs. Conagher, might I have this dance?"

"Why, Mr. Conagher, I do believe you might." She smiles. "I do believe you might."


	9. Green Beans

Heavy reached the mess hall too late, to be of any use or to be killed. The Engineer had been sheared in half by a jagged metal piece of something, the Soldier had been crushed by the refrigerator, the Pyro was a red puddle around a gas mask, and his Doktor...

His Doktor was a body, neck, lower jaw... nothing above that but mess, and even with the sure knowledge of respawn, there was a moment of awful grief.

"Hey." The Scout had said, and Heavy had turned to see him behind one overturned half-a-table. "The kitchen blew up. Pyro was in there messing with the stove and a whole bunch of explosives went off. Why are you picking him up? He's just gonna disappear after he gets respawned."

Heavy couldn't think of a suitable answer, but he couldn't put his Doktor down, either.

"A can of green beans took his head almost all the way off. It hit him right here." Scout tapped his forehead. "Like getting shot with a rocket launcher made of vegetables."

Heavy had seen the can, then, dented and covered with blood and brain and bits of skull, mangled wire glasses frame wrapped around the whole thing.

He laid his Doktor's body out on one of the tables, swept away as much broken glass and exploded food as he could first, before heading down to meet him, alive, in respawn.

It's only when he does that he can breathe comfortably again, and he drags the other man back to the little bedroom just off the medical wing.

"What is this?"

"Half Doktor's head was missing. I was not there to stop it."

"It wasn't a battle, Lieber, it was an accident, you can hardly blame yourself for not protecting me in the kitchen."

Logically, he sees the truth in this, but logic does nothing about the picture still in his mind. It is worse than failing to protect his Doktor on the battlefield-- at least when he falls in battle, there is someone for Heavy to blame, a target for him to unleash his fury on until the Medic is back at his side again and the pain and rage can ebb. When it is an accident, he is useless, and he has no recourse. He cannot punish the kitchen, or the explosives that have already gone off, or the bureaucrats who made the mistake that put them there-- he doesn't even know who to blame for that.

"I love you," He says, has to leave the rest unvoiced and hope the Medic understands.

"Oh... and I you." Medic pats his cheek. "You know, I am perfectly fine now."

"Vse horosho. I know, I..."

"But... you could still... you are free to make sure for yourself, how fine I am." He smiles, takes a step back towards the bed. "Heavy, Lieber... Schatz... You can take care of me now."

It's all he needs to hear. The Doktor's bed is nice, and it bears his additional weight even through their more vigorous activities. The Doktor's nightstand is within easy reach and stocked with lubricant swiped from his office, put to better use than the exams he has to give the team.

Heavy looks forward to his next exam, actually. He hopes the next time will end differently, now that they are together. And his Doktor seems to enjoy him so much... he doesn't think he would mind being in the receiving position at all, as long as he is bent over the examination table anyway.

Now, though, he wants Medic on his back, legs up, pulled into his lap. He uses his hands on the Doktor's hips to control the speed, pulling him in, sliding him back down, over and over again. So far, he likes this position best, likes to be able to watch his Doktor's face, his body, his cock hard and bobbing and flushed dark against his belly. The control he has over them both makes him feel strong, and so very responsible, makes him feel like he has the power to protect his Doktor the next time.

Whenever he has to see his Doktor dead, if it is particularly gruesome, or if it happens too many times in one day, he fucks him like this afterward, and it is hard, and it is fast, but it is also careful in its own way. And if he finishes before he can make the other man come, then he pulls out, lays the Doktor down carefully and uses his mouth, beginning with just a little kiss, on the lips.

This is one of those times, and once the Medic sighs and lets him move on from the kiss, he keeps moving down, leaving hickeys the uniform will hide. Places where, if one of the others caught a glimpse in the shower, it would look like only a normal bruise. Never on his throat, but on his elbow, or low on the ribcage, where he could say he ran into something.

He takes his time, his body satisfied but some part of him not, some part of him still yearning for more even after the act. It lets him admire his Doktor's body, lets him enjoy the soft groans he often drowns out during sex.

After, after Medic chuckles soft and breathless and reaches down to wipe any stray drips of white from his chin, after the fond whispers and kisses, he holds the smaller man close in the iron circle of his arms, dares anything to try and hurt him now, where he is safe.

\---/-/---

The mess hall has been cleaned, the Engineer has repaired the stove and the refrigerator, and things are as normal as they ever have been in the RED base.

A large bowl of green beans is passed down the table. Medic helps himself to a sizable helping and digs into them without a second thought, but Heavy feels queasy at the sight of them and passes the bowl down quickly.

Later that night, it will be his turn, to be made to feel safe, with his head resting over the Medic's beating heart until he falls asleep and the other man has to shove him off to the side.

Still, even with that reassurance, he may never eat canned green beans again...


End file.
